The Virus of a Rose
The rose showed one face to the world.
I believed that face for a long time.
What I could not grasp at first
was never harmless.
I saw only one side.
The rest escaped me.
It stayed hidden
until much later.
I trusted the rose enough to hold it.
The thorns seemed unimportant then.
But some wounds come quietly,
And leave a mark behind.
What started as a scratch
Became more than it appeared.
The wound was easy to hide,
But difficult to forget.
Tears came more often than before.
Some days brought it back.
I tried to move on,
But it stayed behind.
The rose still stands as it always has.
People still lingered near it.
No one sees what lies beneath,
Until it shows itself.
The thorn did not leave just one wound.
It returned more than once.
Each mark stayed a little longer,
and it lingered.
I noticed the flower first.
Little else caught my attention.
The rest came later,
By then… the thorn had done its work.
Not every rose is the same.
Some pain keeps the shape of where it started.
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